The journey away from Ironridge began under a sky that could not decide whether it wanted to storm. Low clouds pressed down on the jagged peaks like a lid, their bellies bruised with shades of charcoal and slate. The air tasted of cold stone and distant rain.
Kaelen rode at the head of his column, the rhythmic clop of hooves echoing faintly in the narrow pass. Behind him, Sir Renic and a dozen guards moved in disciplined formation, their armor dull with dried wolf's blood and the sheen of mountain damp.
The road was a ribbon of cracked flagstones, half-swallowed by moss and wild grass. On either side rose sheer cliffs of black granite, wet from thin rivulets of meltwater that trickled down like silver threads. Tiny alpine flowers clung to the crevices, their fragile blue petals a rare softness against the harsh stone.
Somewhere far above, a hawk cried—thin and sharp, fading into the wind.
Kaelen's mind wandered only briefly before it returned, again and again, to the masked figure in the fog. The five strange words it had spoken to him gnawed at his thoughts, even though he could not recall their exact sound—only the unease they carried.
The pass narrowed ahead. The cliffs leaned inward like giant jaws, their shadow swallowing the road.
Kaelen slowed his horse, scanning the ridges. Something felt wrong—too quiet, too still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then he saw it.
High above, near the lip of the cliff, a figure stood motionless against the sky in black armor. A helm carved with curling script. The same stance as before. That masked soldier.
It did not move, also did not call out. Only watched, the crimson glimmer of its eyes faint but unmistakable even from that distance.
Kaelen's pulse quickened. "Renic," he said without turning his head.
The captain followed his gaze, his expression hardening beneath his visor. "I see it. But he is too far for a bowshot."
The figure tilted its head—slowly, deliberately—before stepping back and vanishing from sight.
The road twisted left, forcing them deeper into the shadow of the cliffs. Here, the air grew colder, the wind funneling through the narrow gap with a mournful whistle. Loose stones shifted under the horses' hooves, sending small cascades of pebbles skittering down into unseen depths.
Ancient waystones lined parts of the path, some toppled, others still upright. They were blocks of pale granite veined with silver, each carved with deep grooves that time had not entirely worn away. Moss grew thick in the cuts, but Kaelen could still make out shapes—lines, spirals, and markings unlike any script he knew.
As they passed one such stone, a faint heat stirred beneath his ribs. That's not pain—more like the flush of blood rushing where it shouldn't.
Kaelen's hand went to his chest. His heart was steady, but his veins—he could feel them, like threads of molten light running just beneath his skin. He pulled off his glove and stared.
For the briefest moment, something shimmered under the flesh of his forearm—thin, curling lines that pulsed with a faint golden glow before fading again.
He stopped his horse.
Renic rode up, concerned about shadowing his scarred face. "Majesty?"
"These stones," Kaelen murmured, nodding toward the waymarker. "Do you feel anything?"
Renic frowned at it, as though expecting it to leap at him. "Nothing but the cold. You?"
Kaelen did not answer at once. He dismounted, boots crunching on the gravel, and stepped closer to the waystone. The surface was damp and smelled faintly of lichen, but when his fingers traced one of the spirals, a faint hum answered. It was so low he almost thought it was imaginary.
They pressed on, the pass widening into a shelf of road where the cliffs opened slightly to reveal the valley far below. A thin mist coiled upward from the depths, blurring the jagged ridges in the distance.
Kaelen's eyes kept flicking to the heights, expecting another glimpse of the masked soldier. He thought of the deliberate way it had stood—neither hostile nor friendly, but present, like a hunter studying prey.
At the far end of the shelf, another waystone jutted from the ground, taller than a man and split through the middle by some ancient impact. The runes on this one were sharper, less worn, and for the first time, Kaelen could make out one shape with certainty—a circle split by a vertical line, like a blade bisecting the sun.
Again, the heat flared in his blood.
They rounded a final bend, and Kaelen saw movement on the ridge.
The masked figure was there again, closer this time, only twenty feet above them on a rocky outcrop. It stood with one hand resting on the pommel of a curved black blade, its visor tilted downward toward him.
Kaelen reined in sharply. The rest of the escort halted, steel rasping as a few men loosened their weapons.
The figure raised its free hand—not in greeting, not in threat, but in some slow, deliberate gesture Kaelen could not place. Its fingers curled inward, then opened again, as if releasing something invisible into the air.
Then it stepped backward into the rock face itself—gone as if the stone had swallowed it whole.
Renic's voice was low. "That's no soldier I've seen, Majesty. That thing is neither a scout, nor a demon. But that… thing knows you."
Kaelen said nothing. The warmth in his veins had not faded. It was as if the stones themselves—and the presence of that figure—were speaking to something buried deep within him.
The pass stretched ahead, curving out of sight. Mist drifted over the stones, and the last of the waymarkers loomed in the distance, half-hidden in shadow. Kaelen gripped his reins tighter, his thoughts heavier than the cold air.
Whatever lay beyond these mountains, he knew the road forward was no longer just a path of stone—it was a thread winding into something older, deeper, and far more dangerous than he had imagined.
To be continued…